


Tears Like Seawater

by Esteliel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Choking, Collars, Humiliation, M/M, Mention of Castration, Mention of Mutilation, Threesome - M/M/M, Unconsciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose and Ramsay have different ideas for how to handle a Reek, and about where to leave a Reek if you are busy. In the end, there is as usual only one person who loses the argument - Reek.</p><p>  <em>"My son," Roose Bolton said very slowly, and very softly, so that Reek almost did not hear him over the sound of his own laboured, panicked gasps, "should know better than to leave his toys where they interrupt my business."</em> </p><p>  <em>Reek would have nodded if he had been able to, and then flinched at this betrayal of his master. No, no, Ramsay did not need to ask for permission, you could not say no to him, you could not tell him not to chain his Reek to a wall in the stable for the stable boys to stare and sneer and snigger. Reek was his master's, and if his master had no time to look after him then it was only right that he would be left wherever it pleased his master. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears Like Seawater

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AeonDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/gifts).



> A Valentine's Day gift for an amazing friend. <3 Thanks for all the inspiration and my latest source of fannish catnip!

Roose Bolton stood still inside the stable, waiting for a servant to come and attend his horse. A heartbeat passed, then another, and he slowly turned, the impatient pawing of his courser echoing through the empty stable. A trumpet of anger followed from the stallion that even now was wet with sweat, great eyes rolling with wrath at the way Roose had forced him past a meadow of mares in heat.

At the animal's echoing cry of anger, at last a stable boy hastened out of a box at the end of the building, eyes widening as he paled until he was nearly white.

"M'lord, forgive me, your son–"

Roose did not even allow the boy to finish. His gloved hand hit with enough force to leave a large, red gash on the boy's cheek. He did not wait to see if his enraged stallion would be taken care of as he strode towards the box the boy had come from.

He was not at first recognized, for the attention of the handful of jeering stable boys was fully taken by the beast crouched in the corner of the box, chained to the wall and curled in on itself. There were scars and whip marks on its skin, which was so dirty that it seemed impossible to tell what was skin and what was ragged, worn fabric.

A soft, keening whimper escaped as one of the jeering men kept tugging on the chain that was fastened to a collar. After another, particularly violent tug, he looked up at last, broken, bleeding fingers scrambling at the leather that cut into his skin – those fingers that were still left to him. He wheezed for breath, choking and coughing, his eyes watering with helpless despair. But then, the pressure lessened, and he could breathe again, and after a long moment of gratefully gulping down air, Reek realized that where before there had been the jeers and the laughter and the cruel jests, there was silence now. Slowly, he dared to raise his head, his eyes travelling over the dirty straw until they came to rest on a pair of boots made from sturdy, dark leather. Only one man wore such fine boots in this fortress – no, two men, Reek corrected himself when he dared to look up, trembling in fear at his insolence but needing to know.

Familiar pale eyes stared down at him, judging him, seeing him for the worthless, displeasing creature that he was, and he shuddered, eyes filling with new tears just from the thought that maybe this had all been another game, another trap, and of course it was. Why would Roose Bolton stand here like this, staring at him, when he was nothing more than a particularly useless, beaten dog chained to a wall by its owner?

"What is the meaning of this?"

Roose Bolton's voice was very cold, and very soft, and Reek trembled harder when he thought for a moment that it was him whom he addressed. Beasts didn't talk, they just cowered at their master's feet, waiting to be beaten for all their inevitable transgressions. Then one of the stable boys dared to speak, and Reek relaxed against the dirty wall with gratefulness.

"You son left him here, m'lord. He said there was no need to be concerned – he doesn't bark, or bite, and since he's gelded there's no need to fear he'll try to mount a bitch."

There were more jeers at those words, and Reek tried to curl in on himself, trying to shield that terrible, empty place between his legs from view even though they had seen it all already, had touched that ugly scar with ungentle fingers until he felt he would choke on his shame and his tears.

The boots slowly came closer, the fine leather incongruous against the dirty straw beneath him so that he flinched with ingrained fear – _I'm forcing him to dirty his boots, he will be angry, so angry_ – and he lowered his head with a sound of anguish, giving in to the pull of the chain at last to allow himself to be dragged closer to Lord Bolton, head down as he crawled like a kicked dog. And was that not what he was? Everyone here knew his true nature, and certainly Lord Bolton too was aware of it.

The chain went slack as he crouched before him, trembling with fear. There was a moment of silence, then, with a clank that made him shudder all over, Lord Bolton took up the chain, slowly tightening it more and more until at first, the pull of it forced his head up and he fought to keep his eyes respectfully lowered. _Don't look at him, don't look at him, you are no man and you are less than a slave, less than a beast, you are just a dog and a dog doesn't deserve to meet his master' eyes like an equal_. He clenched his broken, aching fingers helplessly as he struggled to fix his eyes on Lord Bolton's chest, looking at the clasp in the form of the flayed man that held his cloak closed. The chain tightened, more and more, and he followed the pull of it with terrified obedience until he sat on his knees – and still it pulled, the chain wound around Lord Bolton's hand so many times now that he could feel his knuckles against his cheek, and yet the pressure did not stop. He could not rise from his knees – he was good, he knew his place, he would never forget his place, a beast doesn't get to rise and stand next to its master – but still the pressure increased and increased until tears of terror ran from his eyes and he gasped helplessly for the air that would fill his lungs only with the greatest difficulty.

"My son," Roose Bolton said very slowly, and very softly, so that Reek almost did not hear him over the sound of his own laboured, panicked gasps, "should know better than to leave his toys where they interrupt my business."

Reek would have nodded if he had been able to, and then flinched at this betrayal of his master. No, no, Ramsay did not need to ask for permission, you could not say no to him, you could not tell him not to chain his Reek to a wall in the stable for the stable boys to stare and sneer and snigger. Reek was his master's, and if his master had no time to look after him then it was only right that he would be left wherever it pleased his master.

The sound of Roose Bolton exhaling was like a slap, and Reek cringed with mortification when he realized that he had argued with his words, if only in his mind. Certainly Lord Bolton would know, of course he would know, the same way his master always knew. He grew faint from fear as much as lack of air – and then at last the grip on the chain relented a little, and he took a deep, greedy gulp of air.

There were no more sniggers or jeers, and dimly he wondered if the stable boys had run off to do their work, now that Lord Bolton had arrived to deal with the disgusting beast that had been chained to the wall.

But there was another person now, and when he had finally gulped down enough air and blinked away the tears, he saw the bright, sharp teeth smile down at him like broken bones in the face of the night. He thought he smiled with helpless joy at his master's return, but it might have been just a grimace, for Roose Bolton grabbed his hair to shake his head by it, the same way he would deal with a disobedient dog.

"Your games distract the servants. I will not have the seat of my House turned into a... a circus of your freaks," he murmured, every word as soft, as sharp as thin layers of ice cracking beneath his footsteps. Reek shivered helplessly, seeking the cracks spread across the ice he was walking. He would drown... he would drown, and yet he wouldn't die. There was no salt-water to baptise him, no Drowned God to resurrect him, all he had to drown in was blood and pain and terror. The sea of the Boltons' was not the Iron Sea, for all that the iron taste of his own blood had never left his tongue since he had come to the Dreadfort.

Ramsay Bolton laughed at his father's words. "Have them lashed then. Let Damon give them a taste of his whips. The lazy curs will learn to work harder, unless they would like to join my... my circus of _freaks_."

He said the last word almost lovingly, and Reek found himself nodding along, a smile spreading over his face. Yes. Yes. _I'm Reek, it rhymes with freak_. He was his master's freak. Only his master's, who was so good to him and even let him out of his kennel tonight, to wait in the stables for his master's return, like a good dog. His master was kind.

Roose Bolton made a sound of disgust. "Remember who you are," he threatened. "Remember who is the lord of this place. Disgrace yourself with your games where no one can see. But you will not," he tightened his grip on the collar so abruptly that Reek whined with pained surprise until his air was gone, and then he just choked, gasping for air that never came, "You will not disgrace my name where visitors will see your little games. Keep him with your dogs or in the dungeons for all I care. If you cause me such an inconvenience again..."

Reek swayed, held upright only by the chain in Roose Bolton's hand, darkness encroaching on his vision as the collar around his throat was still unbearably taut.

He did not dare to fight for freedom – he had learned that lesson long ago. Still, as his surroundings grew dimmer around him, he wondered hysterically if this was how in the end, he was going to die, choked in the stables like an unwanted mongrel who had had the misfortune to crawl into Lord Bolton's sight.

Then suddenly, there was blessed air, and he gulped it down greedily, delirious with joy at that incomparable feeling of his bruised, scarred chest expanding with the air he sucked down. It was good enough that for a moment he forgot all about his master, but while he was still panting, hands clenching in the straw, he felt the brush of Roose Bolton's gloves against his cheek, heard the sound of a belt being carelessly undone.

He knew what it meant. It had happened often enough that it was no more than a reflex now to open his mouth, careful to shield his broken teeth. He could feel tears still streaming down his cheeks as Roose Bolton's cock filled him, as hard and remorseless as the man himself, but all he could truly feel in that moment was gratefulness for the air he had been allowed to breathe, for the chance to prove that he was useful, that he deserved to live another day despite his many, terrible failings.

Roose Bolton never made a sound, unlike his master, who was always quick with insult and admonishments, but in its own way, the silence was even more terrifying. What would happened if he displeased Roose Bolton? Ramsay would never let any harm come to him, as long as he was good – but sometimes Reek wasn't good, even though he tried so hard to be good for Ramsay. But Reek was a broken thing, small and disgusting, even less than the dogs who roamed the castle and were fed bones and meat. Sometimes he did not even understand why they let him live. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be the sort of servant Ramsay deserved.

Roose Bolton's hand tightened in his hair, but there was almost no change in his voice though Reek swallowed desperately around him, choking himself voluntarily to prove just how good, how pleasing he could be.

"Take him back to the kennels," he repeated. "Or you will have to amuse yourself without your toys for a while."

Reek felt weak from lack of air and the terror to hear this man threaten his master. You did not threaten Ramsay. You did not talk to him like that, you did not look at him, you did not touch him unless he commanded it...

But this was Roose Bolton, and what would Reek do if he took him away from Ramsay? He trembled in terror, unable to imagine a world like that. Without his master to keep him safe, to remind him of his place, he might forget his name, and what would happen then? _You must remember your name!_

Ramsay's laughter was too quick, too loud, so that he flinched like at the sound of a whip, although his words were meant for his father.

"He is not yours. He is mine – mine!" Ramsay hissed. "I made him mine. Look at him! He is Reek, and he knows it, and he will never be anything else again until he dies."

Reek wanted to nod. _I'm Reek, it rhymes with meek_. But he couldn't move with Lord Bolton's hand grasping his hair in a merciless grip, his cock thick and bitter and hard like hot iron down his throat.

“He's obedient, at least,” Roose said quietly, and then was silent for a moment as his release scalded the back of Reek's throat, bitter like salt water so that for a moment he closed his eyes and dreamed about drowning among beckoning seaweed.

“But he is useless like this. Theon is useful. This creature is not.”

Reek wanted to clamp his hands over his ears at the sound of that name. _No, no, there is no Theon. There is no seaweed. Reek does not dream about drowning. Reek only dreams of pleasing Ramsay._

“It seems he was useful enough to you a moment ago.” There was gloating in Ramsay's voice, and a quiet, simmering anger Reek was not quite certain about. With any other man, he would have called it jealousy – but you could not be jealous of this. No man could be jealous if another man touched his dog. Especially not Ramsay.

Possessiveness then, he thought and ducked his head, vaguely ashamed for having angered Ramsay again, even though he could not think of what else he might have done. But that did not matter. All that mattered was that he had made Ramsay angry, and he trembled while he still gasped for air with pathetic little chocked sobs, cowering at Roose Bolton's feet like the beast he was.

“I have no need of a dog turned into a whore – or a whore turned into a dog.” He could feel Roose Bolton's eyes on him, and he did not dare to move, though he wanted to nod at the truth of those words. That was what he was, and even the thought of Roose Bolton sullying himself by touching him made him feel ashamed. “And it would do you good to obsess less about your pets. There is a war to think about.”

The chain that had been blissfully slack was suddenly tightened, and he had no choice but to back away from Roose Bolton, following the merciless pull of iron until he felt Ramsay against his thighs. It was a relief to cower at his feet. This was right. This was where he belonged. He wished he dared to turn his face, to rub his cheek against Ramsay's legs like one of the girls who sometimes got a bone or a share of Ramsay's meat for their eager affections, but he knew only too well that he did not deserve such spoiling.

Reek dropped his head in quiet resignation when once more, there was the sound of a belt being hastily undone, the fumbling of knots untied with impatient eagerness.

"And have I not done my share already in the war, father?" Ramsay's voice was thick with gloating, and then cruel pleasure when even after all this time, Reek made a thin, helpless sound of pain when Ramsay thrust inside. He kept his head down, fighting against the urge to move away, to cry and plead. Ramsay did not like it if he pleaded. It sounded too much like he did not want it, but Reek wanted it, Reek only wanted to make Ramsay happy.

Through the veil of his tears he stared at the boots in front of him, the fine leather dusty from the straw, shuddering with shame as he imagined Roose Bolton staring down at him with those pale, inhuman eyes. He truly was no better than an animal, and Reek should not feel shame anymore. Reek should be glad that he had a chance to please Ramsay. Reek should be grateful Ramsay had not taken another finger because he had let his father touch him.

And then Ramsay's meaty, sweaty fingers grabbed the leather collar, tightened it until his little sounds of pain once more became choked gasps, and his fingers scrabbled for purchase and only found straw. Ramsay's thrusts were punishing, more painful than the whip in the way they struck him from the inside, scalding him with shame. His lips parted, but no sound came out as Ramsay tightened the collar even more. Reek could feel it cut into his skin, and he gasped for air, arching and twisting as he tried to breathe in, but there was no air, just the impossible pressure and heat of Ramsay inside him, and then the shadow of Roose Bolton fell over him and he looked up, dimly wondering if this was how he would die, on his knees in front of him while his son used him like the animal he had become. There was pleasure in it too, and that was perhaps the worst, that terrible, terrifying pleasure when there was nothing left of what had once given him pleasure, just cruel, aching emptiness between his legs...

"He is no use for us if he forgets who he is." There was no emotion on Roose Bolton's face, save for a slight hint of distaste as he fastened his belt once more.

Ramsay laughed, breathless and exhilarated. His voice was a mockery of tenderness as he raked his nails down Reek's marked back. "You never forget who you are, do you?"

 _I'm your Reek, m'lord,_ he wanted to say, but there was only the seawater of his tears and finally he was drowning, was drowning in salt and iron and the quiet of the water as he sank down and down until all light was gone and there was darkness and quiet and rest...

 

He choked and sputtered when his mouth filled with water, heaving his aching body to the side to retch and cough and suck in painful gulps of air. He received a kick to the ribs for his efforts, and the boy who had upended a bucketful of dirty water over him laughed.

"Back to the kennel when you wake, m'lord said." He received another kick, and for a moment he just wanted to curl in on himself, to let them kick him until he could return to the quiet of the deeps of the sea. But this was not the Iron Sea, and though the Boltons would drown him time and again in blood and pain, there was no Drowned God here to grant him peace. He forced himself onto his hands and knees, aching, tasting blood in his mouth. He shuddered as he felt the itch of drying seed caking his chin, his thighs, his chest, felt the ache of an emptiness inside him where once, maybe, another person had been. Now there was just Reek, and Reek knew it had been a kindness not to have been awake for whatever had happened after Roose Bolton had left.

There was little enough kindness to be found in this place. But the Drowned God did not want him, could not want him after what he had become, and so he would take Ramsay's kindness, even though he knew he did not deserve it.

When he tiredly crawled back towards the warm bodies of the girls, dragging his aching body over the cold, sharp stones of the courtyard. he wondered if one day, there would come a time when Ramsay decided that he truly no longer deserve his kindness. Maybe that day, the Drowned God would no longer deny him.


End file.
